I’ve noticed a couple of things about myself over the past three months:
1) I can’t drink alcohol like I used to and
2) I don’t enjoy going to dance clubs like I used to.
I used to be good at drinking alcohol: When I worked at a restaurant, I would have a libation almost every night after I got off work; I would attend beer festivals and wine tastings on the weekends; this past St. Patrick’s Day, I chugged pints of Guinness and Irish Car Bombs like a champ.
Now that I’m 26 with a full-time Big Kid Job, I don’t drink nearly as much as I used to because I’m trying to get better at that thing called BEING A RESPONSIBLE ADULT. Getting drunk on a weeknight is not an option anymore because the thought of trying to teach six 5th grade classes while hungover does not seem the least bit appealing. And since I’m not drinking nearly as much these days, my alcohol tolerance is much lower: If I have two sips of anything with alcohol in it, I’m giggling and blushing within minutes.
Going out to dance clubs is also not as appealing as it used to be now that I’m in a relationship. When I was single, I loved going out to dance clubs because not only do I love to dance, they were good places to find guys to
make out flirt with. But now when I go to dance clubs, I cling to my girlfriends and won’t even make eye contact with members of the opposite sex.
Don’t get me wrong, I still enjoy going to dance clubs for the actual dancing part; the dance club I went to this past Saturday night played awesome music that kept me on the dance floor for hours. However, something else I’ve noticed is: I can’t
attempt to dance sexy dance sexy anymore! I just alternate back and forth between side-stepping and bouncing around aimlessly; I might even throw in a hair flip, but that’s about all I got.
Oh, and don’t even get me started on the creepers who hang out in said dance clubs. Ladies, you know the ones. The guy who tries to sandwich himself in between you and your girlfriend so he can look like a “pimp.” Or the guy who just stands next to you awkwardly in hopes you’ll make the first move. Or the guy who comes up from behind and starts bumpin’ and grindin’ all up on you and then your girl gives you that look which means “No, he’s not cute. And he smells bad. Abort immediately!”
And those are my recent observations: I’ve morphed back into a lightweight, dance clubs are not really my scene anymore, and I’ve somehow lost my Beyonce-dancing abilities. I still plan on going to dance clubs once in a while, however, because my girlfriends are going to need a wing woman every now and then. Maybe next time I go, I’ll make a shirt to wear that says something like this:
“I just came here to celebrate my best friend’s birthday and dance with my girlfriends and my gay guy friend so thanks for the invite but no I don’t want to dance or make out with you so please go away while we form a circle around our shoes and pocketbooks and JUST DANCE and if you come near me again I’ll effing taser you.”